Page 79 of Like a Power Play (Greenrock University: Icebound #1)

My stomach tightens, the shaft of the vibrator purring as she buries it deeper inside me. Goosebumps scrub my body as I grip her head harder, as I let out a desperate moan muffled only by the warm palm of her hand. As I roll and buck my hips, desperate for the coil inside me to unravel.

"Come on baby," she growls into the back of my neck, causing all the hairs to stand. Her hand tightens over my mouth. "Come for me. I want to see your cum dripping all over my cock."

"Oh fuck!"

And with those words, I come completely and utterly undone. My tired body spasms and rolls, a wave of pressure releasing as pleasure rolls through my body like waves crashing on the shore. Over and over until I am a tired, panting mess, still dripping all over Peyton's lap.

She lifts me up, only to pull the buzzing vibrator from me, turning it off and setting it aside.

"Jesus fuck," she groans. I slide off her lap, turning to face her.

All the blood in my body rushes to my face when I catch the sight. Her black denim is completely soaked, lap stained with my arousal. I open my mouth to apologize, to try to say anything but all that comes out is a strangled sound. Peyton, however, marvels at the sight.

"Damn," she breathes. "You are so fucking—"

She's cut off by a loud rapping at the door.

"Darcy? Are you in there?"

Shit.

Peyton's brows shoot to her hairline as she scrambles to her feet.

"Uh—" I clear my throat, but my voice still comes out panicked. "Just a minute!"

My eyes catch Peyton’s, and after a beat of stillness, we move in tandem.

Shirts fly across the room, exchanging with one another.

I dig through my drawer for a clean pair of underwear.

By the time Cleo opens the door, I’m mostly dressed, minus the bra still in hand, and Peyton is stretched out in my bed with the blanket pulled just high enough to cover her stained pants.

I make a mental note to wash my quilt.

"Okay!" I call.

Cleo bursts in with a grin the size of the sun, her gray eyes beaming in the spring light. She fishes something out of her pocket, a little cardboard tube, and before I can register that it’s not a tampon, she pulls the string.

Confetti explodes into the air.

“I’m gonna be a veterinarian!” she shouts as the bits of colorful paper float down around us.

For the last eight months, Cleo’s told me she’s wanted to be about a hundred different things.

But this is the first time she’s ever celebrated it with confetti.

I don’t know if this is her final decision, but it only takes me a second to remember that whether or not she changes her mind again is none of my business.

The only thing I need to do right now is support her.

So, without thinking any further, I throw my arms around her for the first time ever.

“Cleo, that’s great!” I say, and she lets out a high-pitched squeal of excitement.

"Yeah, that's like, perfect! " Peyton adds.

“ I know! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!” she gushes, bouncing on her feet. “I’m already majoring in bio-med, so when I graduate, I’ll have all the creds to apply to vet school. It just makes sense, you know?”

I smile, squeezing her tight before collapsing back onto the bed. “It does.”

Right on cue, Socks pads into the room, jumping up beside me. I’m so focused on Cleo rambling on about how excited she is that I barely notice when he settles in my lap.

I smile, my hand absentmindedly brushing along his fur as she keeps talking.

“And I already applied for a job at the shelter by the bodega, and—” She stops suddenly, eyes widening. Her gaze locks on me, and her jaw drops. She gasps.

“Oh. My. God.”

I frown, looking down at Socks in my lap, then back at Cleo. “What?”

Her eyes are still wide as she points at me, breaking into a grin. “You love him!”

I scoff, still petting the little demon. “I do not,” I say, trying to sound firm. “He’s just... grounding .”

Cleo shakes her head. “You love Socks! Say it.”

I stare at her, deadpan. “I don’t love Socks,” I say, but the corner of my mouth twitches.

Peyton frowns. "It kinda looks like you do."

Cleo raises an eyebrow. “ Say. It. ”

I crack. “Okay, fine. I might like him a little . But he’s still a menace.”

Cleo beams, crouching down to scratch behind his ears.

“Your Auntie D loves you,” she sings, and I roll my eyes, a smile creeping up despite myself.

She scoops him back into her arms, strolling back toward my door.

Before she steps through, she turns to look at us.

"Are y'all gonna come eat with me or did you do enough of that already? "

Peyton and I exchange a flushed glance, and a few minutes later, after she's changed into some of my clothes, we head toward the kitchen.

Peyton drops herself onto one of the barstools at the counter, spinning it a little.

I grab a box of cereal from the cupboard and pour all three of us a bowl, the dry Cheerios clinking against the ceramic.

Just as I place the bowls in front of us and sit down, a loud melody springs from my phone.

Startled, I glance at it, frowning when a number I don’t recognize flashes across the screen.

With a quick swipe, I hit the decline button and set it back down on the counter.

But before I can pick up my spoon, it starts ringing again.

“Who is that?” Cleo asks, thick dark brows drawing together.

I shrug, letting it ring out this time, Cleo bopping her head around to the xylophone melody until it finishes. Only, as I spoon another bite into my mouth, it just starts again.

Peyton's lips press into a flat line as she points at it. “Maybe you should get that.”

I let out a reluctant sigh before answering, pressing the cool screen to the shell of my ear.

“Who is this?” I ask, voice clipped with frustration. There’s a long pause on the other end. So long that I almost hang up, but just as I’m about to, a voice finally breaks through.

“Hello?”

The sound is deep, smooth, and unfamiliar, and it sends a confused shiver down my spine. I tilt my head, phone wedged between my ear and shoulder, balancing a spoonful of cereal halfway to my mouth.

“Is this Darcy?” the voice asks, and I freeze. The worst thing about the 21st century is that anyone can get your information if they really want it.

The frown on my face deepens as I shove my spoon into my mouth. “Yeah, who is this?” My tone is less than friendly. The man on the other end clears his throat before speaking again.

“Oh, good. This is Harrison Clarke,” he says. “Peyton’s dad.”

Oh.

My.

Fucking.

God.

I try to swallow, but the cereal is lodged in my throat, refusing to budge.

Milk trickles down my esophagus, and I start coughing violently, clutching at my neck like it will help.

Cleo's and Peyton's gazes snaps to me, brows furrowed in concern as they watch me flounder, my hands moving from my neck to the counter, smacking it repeatedly.

Finally, a Cheerio rockets out of my throat and lands with a soft thud against the peeling contact paper. I cough one last time before I rasp into the phone.

“Sorry, can you hold for just a second?”

“Sure,” he answers, and I immediately press the mute button, my eyes flying wide as I flash both Peyton and Cleo a frantic stare.

“What?” Peyton asks, eyes flicking from me to the phone, then back to me again. I swallow hard, trying to steady myself.

“I just sent your dad to voicemail. Twice .”

Cleo’s jaw drops. She slaps her hand over her mouth, completely speechless, her eyes going as wide as saucers.

Meanwhile, Peyton breaks into a cackle. My heart’s still racing as I hop off the barstool, feet hitting the cold linoleum, the impact biting at my ankles.

I shuffle across the kitchen, the stool still swiveling behind me, and shut myself into my room. I take the phone off mute.

“I’m so, so sorry about that, sir,” I blurt breathlessly. “I had no idea who was calling me.”

He chuckles softly, deep and warm, and the tension in my shoulders loosens just a little. “I wish Peyton shared that sentiment. The kid’s never met a stranger.”

I force a laugh that is way too loud. My hand slaps against my forehead in awkward frustration. “Yeah, that’s… true. Um… so… what can I do for you, sir?”

“Harry is fine,” he says, and I swear my whole body ignites. “And I wanted to talk to you a little bit about your plans after graduation. Peyton tells me you’re a senior?”

My pulse stutters, hammering against the inside of my ribs.

I take a sharp inhale trying to calm it.

"Yeah,” I say, tone deceptively steady. “I’m graduating with a BA in Kinesiology.

Right now—” My throat tightens. I feel like there’s a right answer and a wrong answer to this, but I have no idea which is which.

“I’m not currently planning to attend any further education.

” I add quickly, and enthusiastically, “But that could change!”

The silence that follows is suffocating. It’s like someone is holding a pillow over my face, and the only thing I can do is listen to my own pulse as I inevitably pass out. I’m only able to breathe when Harrison speaks again.

“Okay, cool. So, are you planning to take a full-time position on campus if it’s offered, or do you have other employment ideas in mind?”

“Uh…” I falter. Why is he asking me this? “I don’t have anything locked in yet,” I say, my voice feeling smaller now. “I was considering physical therapy, but… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel quite right.”

Harrison laughs, a smooth, knowing sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “I get it,” he says casually. “The reason I’m asking is that I passed your info over to my buddy, Duy Quyê?n, over at CAA. We’ve got a potential opportunity for you.”

“ Duy Quyê?n?!” I blurt the name out, almost laughing at the sheer absurdity of it. As if I weren’t already on the phone with the Harrison Clarke himself. “The agent? That Duy Quyê?n?”

Duy Quyê?n is the agent in the NHL. If you’re under his wing, you’re practically guaranteed to be where you want to be. He represents all the big players, including GU alumini, Lachlan Hunt.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harrison says.

Ma’am. Harrison Clarke just called me ma’am. I nearly pass out. My heart trips over itself, stomach fluttering with a dangerous cocktail of embarrassment, disbelief, and pure, giddy awe. I try not to fangirl but the words tumble from my mouth anyway.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I squeak, swiping a bead of sweat from my brow.

“He happens to be a really close buddy of mine,” Harrison continues, skipping over my spiraling in a move I’m grateful for. “I hope you don’t mind, but I shared some of your ideas with him.”

My ideas? Harrison Clarke shared my ideas with Duy Quyê?n? They talked? About me? Together?

“Turns out,” he continues, his voice husky but bright. “Ehlers-Danlos runs in his family, which is why he stepped away from hockey after high school. He really liked your idea, Darcy. We both think it could go somewhere.”

There’s another beat of silence, but this time, I don’t panic. Because I already know how things like this go. How complicated this is. How unrealistic.

“But?” I ask, aware of the intricacies.

A heavy sigh slips through the receiver. “But these things take time. A lot of time. Resources. Experience. Funding.”

My throat hardens, and I force a nod, to myself more than anyone. It was a pipe dream. I knew that.

“Look, Darcy,” he adds, voice softening. “We want to help. Until we can get this rolling, Duy’s offering you a chance to get some experience. There’s an internship for an assistant strength and conditioning coach with the Seattle Axolotyls starting this summer. It’s yours if you want it.”

“Sorry,” I ask, trying to suck in a breath. But each time I do, my chest constricts. “What?”

“Since it’s in the off-season, the pay isn’t great. But it’s a twelve-week contract with an opportunity to turn into a real role, if you stick with it.”

My mind begins to spin, and I collapse onto my bed to steady myself.

The Seattle Axolotyls.

“Take some time to think about it,” he continues. “But they’ll want an answer by the end of May.”

When I speak, my voice sounds like it doesn’t belong to me. “You—why would you do that for me?”

Harrison chuckles warmly. “Because I believe in what you stand for.” Through the receiver, I hear a muffled voice and the soft rustle of shifting papers. "Shit, I gotta go. Duy will be in touch soon, so don’t decline his call!”

Heat crawls up my neck, expanding over my cheeks.

“And you save this number, Darcy," he adds. "Call me anytime, okay?”

I fumble for words, my brain scrambling to catch up. “Yes—uh, yes. Okay. Okay, thank you so much! ”

“You too,” he says, and then the line goes quiet. It’s punctuated with the sound of three beautiful, monotonous beeps. I love those beeps. I needed those beeps.

Because that means what just happened was real.

For a minute, I can’t move. I just stare at the screen, blinking. Like maybe if I do it long enough, another call will follow. One telling me that this was all a prank. But the call doesn’t come.

I squeal so loudly that for a moment, I don’t realize it came from my own mouth.

Cleo and Peyton both burst into my room, Peyton's amber eyes catching mine as she skids to a halt.

“Are you okay?” she asks, palms pressed to her knees, panting.

Harrison Clarke believes in what I stand for, I think.

I look up at her, blinking hard as tears start to prick at the corners of my eyes. “The NHL wants to offer me an internship.”